


Common People, or "La Pomme Scandaleuse"

by Dajo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drinking Games, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Post-Canon, misuse of rosary beads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dajo/pseuds/Dajo
Summary: An angel and a demon spend a night together drinking a fine vintage, recounting their past and making up for lost time.





	Common People, or "La Pomme Scandaleuse"

Nights like these- with a gentle but persistent rainstorm tapping softly on the windows, the pleasant scent of old dusty books and good company- were perfect for wine.

 

This particular wine had been acquired in quite extraordinary circumstances. Aziraphale had performed a minor miracle to save an entire litter of cats from a tree, and in doing so had very much by accident bent the tree in such a way that a nearby grandmother who had slipped and toppled off her balcony was able to land safely in the tree’s comfortable canopy. It had made for an extremely favourable report.

 

Even better than that, though, he had been met with such gratitude that he was presented with several bottles of 1756 _Pomme Scandaleuse_. It was an incredibly sweet vintage, with notes so fruity they could scarcely be called notes any more. Chords would be more appropriate.

 

It was the closest to what one might imagine all wine tastes like if they had only tasted grape juice, and so saccharine one doesn’t notice how much they’ve had until they try to stand and find their consciousness appears to have moved several feet to the left of where their body is.

 

It was- in essence- perfect for nights like these, with the rain, and the dust, and the books- but _especially_ perfect for the company.

 

“Was that whole water into wine business true, then?” Crowley asked, pouring himself another glass, “Only I never quite got around to asking him.”

 

“Oh, yes, I believe so.” Aziraphale replied, twirling his glass around under his nose because that was what you were supposed to do with these things.

 

“Couldn’t have been very good.” Crowley mused.

 

Aziraphale glanced up at the demon, reclining on his sofa in a position that could only have been comfortable to somebody who had spent a significant amount of time as a snake. His almost-suit of ever-so-slightly mismatched shades of black was just a little too tight to lounge comfortably in. Except, apparently, for Crowley, who showed no sign of discomfort, even around the _tightest_ areas.

 

“Terribly sorry,” the angel cocked his head ever so slightly, “You don’t think Jesus himself made good wine? He was Jesus, Crowley, he was perfect, that was the point. He was the epitome of good. The vessel for the great plan. Absolutely in-”

 

“If you say ineffable…”

 

“ _Indifectible.”_

“ _Indifectible?_ That’s not even a word.”

 

“It is. I’ll look it up right now.”

 

Aziraphale moved a coaster to place his glass down and stood from his chair. He shuffled quietly amongst his bookshelves, looking for a dictionary he knew he’d put down a century or so ago.

 

“I don’t mean _good_ , I just mean _good,”_ elaborated Crowley, watching Aziraphale as he walked, “I mean that it’s not as though he made a fine vintage, is it? It’s not as though it was going to be something like this. The wine was only a minute old. Who drinks minute wine?”

 

_“Indifectible,”_ The angel read aloud from a tremendously yellowed copy of the Oxford dictionary, “ _Adjective. Not liable to fail, end, or decay. Having no defects, perfect.”_

Crowley smiled- a wry sort of grin with mocking undertones, sharp flavours and a hint of fang- and took a swig of the wine clearly meant for sipping.

 

“You just love proving me wrong, don’t you, angel?” He decanted his words, slightly slurring them together, as he poured himself even more wine.

 

“It’s sort of in the job description,” Aziraphale uttered, flicking through pages of the dictionary before setting it firmly back in the place it had occupied for so long, “There’s all sorts in there about right and wrong. Good and bad. Words that exist.”

 

“ _Oh, forgive me, angel, for I have sinned_.” Crowley whispered, a derisive tone, but still with an audible smile.

 

Aziraphale gulped and pretended not to hear that. He returned, quietly, to his seat, where he acted as though he was terribly invested in the glass of wine and had nothing at all to say.

 

Crowley watched him the whole time. The angel was dressed much more traditionally comfortably. Trousers that bordered on pyjama levels of soft, and a jumper so frothy and white one would be forgiven for thinking it was never taken off the sheep.

 

He watched him walk, eyes drifting perhaps a little low. He watched as the jumper rode up a little as Aziraphale reached up to the shelf just above his head, and he watched the hint of soft skin that was temporarily visible. He watched him sit down in a meticulously symmetrical position. The sort of sitting position one only achieves by studying the perfect way to sit for a few decades.

 

He watched the whole process from start to finish, never blinking behind his black frames. The primary benefit of wearing sunglasses, he’d always thought, was that you could look at whomever you wished to look at for as long as you wished to look at them and they’d never be any the wiser.

 

“I can’t help but notice you staring at me, Crowley.” Aziraphale finally spoke.

 

Crowley’s stomach dropped.

 

“A passing glance,” he lied, “Wondering if you’re going to keep nursing that glass.”

 

“Are you in any particular hurry? We have all night to drink. I’d like to savour it.”

 

“Is that all we’re going to do?” Crowley whined.

 

Aziraphale said nothing.

 

“There’s so much more we could be doing. So much more fun we could be having.”

 

Aziraphale stayed silent.

 

“The wine’s great and everything but I’ve got a much better idea.”

 

Aziraphale, remarkably, made no remarks.

 

“There’s a thing humans do. I think we should give it a try.”

 

“Just,” Aziraphale broke his silence with an utterance just barely audible, “What are you implying?”

 

Crowley stood, quite suddenly, spilling wine which immediately and slightly miraculously returned to the glass. For a moment he felt as though his consciousness had moved several feet to the left of where his body was, but after he regained his composition he announced his plan, grandly, proudly, a little ostentatiously.

 

“You and I. Right here. Right now. Let’s play _Never Have I Ever.”_

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“ _Never Have I Ever!_ It’s a game. It’s a fun one. You say something you’ve never, ever done, and everybody in the room who’s done it drinks.”

 

“And then?”

 

“In theory, everybody gets drunk.”

 

“That’s all well and good, but to what end, though?”

 

“That’s it! That’s the beauty of it. No winners, no losers, no _sides_. Everybody comes out happy. Everybody comes out drunk off their t–“

 

“Crowley, the things we’ve done, though,” Aziraphale interrupted with a concerned laugh, “The things we’ve both done and the things we’ve done individually. There’s very little we haven’t done. We’d both be drinking for everything.”

 

“Not _everything._ ” Crowley sat back down, legs spread far apart.

 

“We’ve been on Earth since the beginning!” laughed Aziraphale, “I saved an old woman with a tree! You invented Manchester! The two of us helped avert _Armageddon_ , Crowley. What _haven’t_ we done?”

 

“I’m sure we’ll think of _something_. After all, we’ve got all night.” Crowley winked behind his sunglasses.

 

Aziraphale pretended not to hear that, and almost imperceptibly shifted his sitting position.


End file.
